Tuesday, December 09, 2014

It was born into the world back
near the beginning, when the man and the woman both turned away from Life. At
first it was weak and tentative; its presence remained unknown until brother
envied brother, and selfish rage fuelled the hand that rose and struck down the
one had done well. Then it stood revealed, and its presence was accepted as
inevitable. Soon it was stretching its power, and man after man, woman after
woman, sooner or later became its lawful prey. There was only one jarring
exception: the man called Enoch, who walked straight past it into the presence
of God, and it could not lift so much as a claw against him. That was
disconcerting, and troubling, implying a weakness in its absolute tyranny, but,
as time passed and humanity expanded, that one anomaly was almost forgotten.
There were no other exceptions, everybody else, however strong, wealthy or
good, was forced, in the end to submit to it.

The centuries passed and it grew
stronger and stronger, with more to feed upon, though there was a niggling
sense of weariness even in its insatiable appetite. Flexing its muscles,
feeding its hunger, it developed more and more weapons to use for its purposes:
violence, famine, disease, flood, fire, foolish superstitions and corrupt religion
which gave it little children and men and women at their finest strength
offered up in useless sacrifice. Its favourite of all was war. When clan fought
against clan, or, better still, nation fought against nation, men women and
children were fed to the beast in such quantities that it was left marvelling
that humanity could so hate itself! Oh yes, there was the strange anomaly of
Elijah, so many centuries before, managed to bypass its claims, but what was
one against so very, very many?

Then came the time that changed
everything. It loved the Roman armies, for they fed it well, so well that it
had no particular attention to spare for one more crucifixion in a small
provincial town. But on that particular day, when that particular man died, and
Death, the great Beast, took Him down into its jaws, something indescribable
happened. This prey did not stay lifeless and limp in its jaws. Instead the
hunter became the prey, the victim became the victor. In the darkness of the
tomb, beyond the reach of human sight or understanding, cosmic battle was waged
on mankind’s behalf by one who was a man, yet more than a man. And Death itself
was defeated, the Beast was chained, its power broken.

What were Enoch and Elijah compared
to this? They may have bypassed Death for themselves, but this man, this
Christ, this illegitimate shabby Jewish teacher, had destroyed death in the
very act of his dying, and offered freedom from the Beast for all mankind. Oh,
until the last Act of the drama was played out, men’s bodies would still endure
death. But his jaws held no more terror now, his gums were toothless. The Beast
was now on a chain, and one day, very soon, the chain would be pulled in and
the end would come. He was the Last Enemy, but one day every enemy would be
conquered. Death would die, its death sentence had already been given in the
court that could not be gainsaid.

Monday, November 24, 2014

She stood trembling at the edge of the room, knowing that if
she did not soon gather her courage together, she never would. She was still
half- hidden from sight standing by a pillar, a veiled woman standing in the
shadows, retreating from the judgemental sight of men. She knew who she was,
better than any of them did, and she knew what she had done: the sordid
couplings that chased the illusion of glamour and excitement, but always fell
short of what they promised, the descent into shame, and the terrible place she
had found herself in, when glamour and illusion had departed, laughing
scornfully at her as they fled, and she found herself alone, used, degraded,
despised, and with no way of existence that did not involve even further
degradation. There was no bitter name they could have called her that she had
not already called herself. Shame was like an acid that had eaten into her
bones and left her weak and incapable. Any movement of her will had simply led
to more grating pain. It was easier to be numb, to be hardened, to live from
one spitefully given coin to the next. Oh, the stories she could tell of some
of the men right here in this room! But who would ever believe her testimony
anyway?

But then she had seen Him, the Nazarene preacher, the man
who was different. She had hidden herself at the edges of the crowd, and
listened, again and again. It had not been easy. Sometimes she had needed to
walk away for a while because his words had re-opened wounds which she thought
had long since died. No one had ever told her how painfully hope can come to
the hopeless. But she always came back for more; it was like learning to
breathe clean air or drink sweet water.

And now she had come to the Pharisee’s house, because she
knew he would be there, and she wanted him to know how his words had changed
her. She fixed her eyes on him, and as she did, her fear of everyone else faded
away. There were banqueters, and servants and as always, a heap of beggarly
onlookers. But none of them mattered. There was only herself and Jesus. He
looked up, looked her straight in the eye, and, overwhelmed by what she saw
there, she ran straight to his feet. She pushed her veil out of the way, and
fell sobbing at his feet, overcome by wonder and gratitude. She took out the little
jar of perfume, the most valuable thing she owned, broke the seal and poured it
out recklessly, prodigally, all over his feet. She wiped them with her own
hair. She could the gasps of shock and outrage around the room, but she no
longer cared what those hypocrites thought.
She looked up into his eyes, and it was as if the love she found there
created a shield to protect her from their cruel judgement. The world could
only offer her condemnation, but he had given her something far more precious. He
had given her forgiveness.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Pursued by both fear and failure, he climbed over the next
hill (was there no end to this wilderness?), and saw, to his great relief, that
there was a well up ahead. Not till this moment had he dared admit to himself
just how tired and thirsty he felt. Speed had been the imperative, to get out
of Egypt before Pharaoh’s soldiers caught up with him. But they wouldn’t follow
him here. He was far enough from the border’s now, even by the standards of his
own fear, to know that no pursuit would follow him this far. Besides, by
tomorrow, someone else would have claimed the focus of Pharaoh’s anger, and he
would be forgotten about unless he drew someone’s attention to his existence.
He wondered how, if at all, his own family would remember him? With his
privileged upbringing in the palace, he had never really been one of them. His
own riches and comfort had been a source of awkwardness whenever he visited
them. He had wanted so badly to prove that he was one of them, that he cared.
He had wanted to use his privilege to help his own people in their terrible
bondage, but all he had succeeded in was a mean little murder and his own
subsequent flight. He down near the well, in what shade he could find, and
surrendered to his despondency.

He was startled into awareness by the sound of some young
women bringing their flocks to be watered. For a moment he thought of revealing
himself to them, but he was unsure of his reception, and stayed where he was.
But no sooner had they settled to their task, drawing up water for the troughs
the animals drank from than another group of shepherds turned up and drove them
back, pushing them out of the way so that they could go first. The empty wilderness
was becoming a very busy place!

This was too much for Moses! The same sense of justice which
had got him into trouble in Egypt compelled him forward in the girls’ defence.
The shepherds, who had been happy to bully a group of women, subsided quickly
at the sight of one angry man, and let the delighted women complete their task,
with his assistance. Then, while the girls returned to their father’s house,
Moses sat down again and wondered which way he should go next.

But then the girls returned to invite him back to their
home. Their father welcomed him with gladness, and, in the fullness of time,
gave him one of his daughters in marriage. Moses had found a safe haven, a
place where he could live and raise a family, telling himself that it was
foolishness to expect to be something more than other men. He did not know then
that after forty years he would be summoned back from these desert places that
were breaking and remaking him, to walk back into the palace of a new Pharaoh,
and to be caught up in a far more glorious unfolding of his people’s liberation
and redemption than any he could have imagined on his own.

Thursday, October 09, 2014

He had always known that his
friends were wrong, but now he knew that, though his first judgement had been
right, it had been right for the wrong reasons. He had been seeing the whole
situation through the lens of his own righteousness, his own non-deserving of
punishment. It shocked him – no, totally unmanned him – to realise that a man
could be right for the exact wrong reasons, and that a man could seek God
earnestly all his days, and earnestly strive to be pleasing to Him, and fulfil
all His commands, and yet … and yet … totally misconstrue who God was and what
it meant to serve and worship Him.

He had always been a careful man,
a scrupulous man, the very definition of ‘God-fearing’. Only now could he see
the irony of it all: that he had feared God in the wrong way, for the wrong
reasons, precisely because he had cut his image of God from the cloth of his
own being, that he, who had sought in all things to walk in excruciating
humility so as to cause no affront by effrontery, had had the ridiculous
arrogance to imagine that his human understanding could define all that God
was!

It was strange though, wasn’t it,
that he could see the ridiculous flaws in the understanding of those friends
who had sought so hard to correct his theology and show him the error of his
thinking, yet could not see the inadequacy of his own thinking. The same moral
fearfulness that had always made him so conscientious had served as his defence
against their accusations – had he not always searched his heart and life for
hidden sin, had he not always made pre-emptive sacrifices against any possible
sin of his children? And now, in his hour of tragedy, when they could find no
better comfort to bring him than their blazing certainty that he must have
committed some grave sin for God to punish him so severely, he knew they must
be wrong. But their questions only added to his torment, and his abiding sense
of injustice.

Then the Lord came, fierce and
terrible in the mighty storm, and spoke the words that shattered, “Where were
you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Have you given orders to the
morning? Have the gates of death been shown to you? What is the way to the
abode of light?” On and on the relentless questions came, until he no longer
sought to protect himself from them, but instead was lifted into the grand
vision, the vast glory of God’s purpose and design. How had he ever imagined
that his words were enough? It was not that they were wrong, it was that they
were so woefully inadequate, because his concept of God, a rumour and a theory,
was so much less than even the edge of the wonderful reality.

There was only one possible,
trembling reply, “I had heard of you with the hearing of my ears, but now my
eyes see you, and I repent in dust and ashes.”

Saturday, September 27, 2014

The corner of Simon’s lip
twitched, betraying his satisfaction as derision and delight melded together in
a perfect moment. All his long-held suspicions had been justified! This
outlandish Galilean, not trained in the proper rabbinical schools or accredited
by due, recognised process, was a total fraud! He spoke so eloquently – yes,
Simon was a fair-minded man, he could concede that this Jesus was eloquent –
yes (he lost his train of thought for a moment and quickly recovered it), he
was certainly eloquent enough, talking about God and holiness and the nature of
true righteousness as if he had the last word to say on the subject. And he
spoke as if he knew better than the Pharisees, the true guardians and
protectors of the Law of Israel, as if he, this nobody from Nazareth (Nazareth?
Seriously? Could anything good come from there?) … he caught his train of
thought again … this upstart Nazarene really believed he knew more about
holiness than those who had dedicated their whole lives to studying, and
scrupulously obeying, all the minutiae of the Law. And, unfortunately, the
common people, with the itching ears of those who found the Law a burden rather
than a privilege, would rather run after this Jesus and listen to him and
ignore the careful wisdom of the Pharisees

Yet now he was caught out on the
most elementary principle of all. All serious students of the Law knew that a
man who sought holiness should have nothing to do with women (except his own
wife, who should know her place). Women were a snare and a temptation, unholy
daughters of Eve the original temptress. No man who was serious about God would
allow a strange woman to come physically close to him, let alone touch him. It
was a matter of principle. Hadn’t he read the passages in Proverbs about the
dangers of the Adulteress? And how could a man make any claim to be a prophet
of God, and not immediately see that this was a sinful woman, a woman whose
moral failings made her unfit for decent company? Yet here was Jesus, quite
unperturbed, while this wicked woman wept all over his feet, wiped them with
her hair and then poured perfume all over them! What was he thinking? Surely
her hair flowing loose in public was enough to show her indecency? Yet as Simon
watched closely, there was not the slightest hint of disdain on Jesus’ face.
Instead, he seemed to look at her as if she were wonderfully precious.

Then Jesus raised his eyes from
the woman and looked straight at Simon. Suddenly Simon felt a bit less sure.
But then Jesus started telling a story about 2 men who owed different amounts
of money, and both had their debts cancelled. What did that have to do with
anything? He seemed to think it was all about love. Next he was reproaching Simon about a lack of the finer courtesies
owing to a guest – did Jesus seriously imagine that a man such as Simon would
stoop to wash the feet and anoint the head of someone like himself? Protecting one’s status was also a matter of
principle. Somehow, in Jesus’ eyes this wicked woman had given him the very courtesies
that Simon had denied him.

Then, to complete the outrage,
Jesus turned and said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.” Who did he think
he was? Only God could forgive sins: that, too, was a matter of principle.

Monday, September 15, 2014

It would have been so much easier
to pretend that she knew nothing, that she cared nothing, to sink into the life
of a pampered princess, enjoy all the privileges of being Queen of Persia, and let
her heart and soul wither and wilt. After all, what could she do? She was a
young woman in a world of warriors and intricate power politics and her
position and safety were totally dependent on the whims of a king who had
already shown himself to be very quick to discard a queen who failed to gratify
his every whim with blind subservience. She was, in her own way, despite the
silks and golden dishes, the perfumed gardens, and the servants trained to
fetch whatever she should desire, more trapped than the poorest free citizen of
the empire. Life i8 the harem was a life of cushioned slavery.

But her cousin’s words haunted
her. Partly it was the warning: her safety was not guaranteed. If the King,
under Haman’s evil influence, had issued a decree (the unalterable law of the Medes
and Persians) that all Jews in the realm were to be destroyed on a certain day,
then surely some enemy would betray her (and a palace was full of enemies,
whether one was aware of them or not). All men live under the shadow of death,
all our safety is but a temporary respite from the inevitable. She was more
deeply affected by his assurance that God would raise up a Deliverer; from the
cradle her uncle had taught her the history of her people: the history of sin,
fall, and deliverance played out over and over again. The promises to Abraham
still stood; his seed would not be obliterated from the earth. All of that was truest truth.

But what stirred her very soul,
and demolished the illusion of peace she had tried to find rest in were the
final words of his message: “who knows but that you have come to royal position
for a time such as this?” Her elevation had always seemed the most
extraordinary thing to her, despite her cousin’s confidence. She was not the
only pretty girl in the world. But what if he were right? What if God had given
her this privilege and status just so that she could intervene at this crucial
moment (which only God had known would take place) to protect her people, God’s
people? What if it was not about an easy life for Esther, but about preserving
the race through whom salvation would one day come? What if????

There was only one way to find
out, she would have to put the King’s favour to the test. If she approached him
and he did not extend his sceptre, it was death, but death was only a heartbeat
away anyway. And if he extended his sceptre and gave favour to her plans, then
she would have the opportunity, in the right time and place, to make her plea,
and the lives of many of her own people could be saved. Put that way, the
choice was no choice at all. Tremblingly, prayerfully, she prepared herself to
face the king.

Monday, September 01, 2014

During her empty, tear-washed
days the small betrayals tormented her mind the most, wriggling through her waking
thoughts like worms piercing tunnels through the soil. She felt as if everyone
around her had let her down, and her father most of all. How could he fail to
protect her? How could he fail to bring down the full weight of justice and its
consequences on the man who had violated her? As King, should he not uphold the
law of God against a man who raped a virgin daughter of Israel? As a father,
should he not support and love his ravaged daughter, giving her back the worth
that had so wickedly been stolen from her? She could only conclude that a son
was w9orth so much more to him than a daughter; that he saw her as being as
worthless as Amnon had made her feel. Oh yes, reports said that David was very
angry when he heard what her brother had done to her, but since he did nothing
about it she wasn’t sure what his anger was about, or who he was really angry
with, and her wretchedness increased. If her own father would not speak healing
into her life, or defend her honour as his own, then desolation was all that
she had.

It was when she lay on her bed at
night, and tossed and turned, longing for the respite of sleep, yet fearing the
terrors that returned in her dreams, that the huge betrayal came back to
overwhelm her, so that she struggled to breathe as if his hand was still
weighing down upon her face to stifle her screams, and her body spasmed in pain
as if his violation tore her all over again. The whole bitter sequence of his
deception, mindless lust and then furious rejection of her played itself out
over and over in her mind. In what way had he not harmed and dishonoured her?
In what way had he not treated her, a princess of Israel, his own half-sister, more
despicably than the Law allowed him to treat the meanest slave girl? He had
gone to so much trouble to gain access to her – feigning illness, demanding
that she cook for him, and that nothing less than food from her own hands would
cure him (and she blamed herself bitterly for not being suspicious at this
point – but did her naïve pleasure in his attention really make her deserving
of what he did?), demanding that all others leve the room and she feed him
alone in his own bedroom (why, oh why didn’t she, or someone else say that this
was ridiculous and unnecessary? Was everyone afraid to say ‘no’ to a prince who
had been denied nothing all his born days? But then, why should anyone expect
such actions from a man who seemed so ill?) and then, despite her vehement
protestations, the rape that would haunt her dreams as long as she drew breath.
Then came the final, most cutting, humiliation of all: having desired her so
fervently, against all reason, decency or sense, once he had sated his lust he
now despised her as passionately as he had wanted her, and had her flung from
rooms in disgusted repudiation.

She had been betrayed, her very
identity as a princess of Israel had been stolen from her, forever. Tamar sat
alone and wept, and no one offered her consolation. No one stood by her to tell
her that the God of Israel was a Father who would never fail her, that the
Redeemer of Israel cared so much that He would one day come and be broken
Himself so that Life and justice could be restored.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

It
was time. God had spoken and the hour had finally come when they would start
walking into their inheritance. Yes, they would have to fight for it, but what
should that matter if the Lord Himself was fighting for them? Victory was as
certain as the rising and the setting of the sun each day, for, after all, it
was the One who had set the greater light to govern the day, and the lesser
light to govern the night, who had set the stars in their places and appointed
times and seasons, it was this same God who had spoken to him and told him that
he would lead these people to inherit the land. When god spoke, the world came
into being; when God spoke the descendants of Abraham would inherit the land.

But
tonight was a night for memories, for he knew that what he was about to do was
part of a story that had started long before he was born and that would continue
long after he was gone, which would include his children’s childrens’ children
for untold generations. It had started when God had called out childless Father
Abraham from the land of the pagans, called him out to be the father of a great
nation (though his wife was barren) and to inherit a land which he had never
seen. Eventually he had a child, Isaac, but the only portion of the land which
he ever owned was the grave plot of his wife. Isaac, and, after him, his son
Jacob, and then Jacob’s twelve sons had been sojourners in the land, until the
famine had led to their relocation to Egypt, where Jacob’s son Joseph had been
sent by God before them to prepare the way. And there the descendants of
Abraham had flourished until Pharaoh grew so afraid of their numbers that he
enslaved them, until the cries of their oppression went up to God, and in the
fullness of time He sent them Moses, the Deliverer.

And
this was where Joshua’s own story had begun. He had been one of that nation of liberated
slaves who had followed Moses after the fatal night of the Passover, and
experienced the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea, and stood at the foot of
Sinai, where God called them to be a nation set apart, holy to Himself. He knew
that God was the Almighty Redeemer of His people. So he had been thrilled when he was chosen as one
of the twelve spies to go and find out about the land they had been promised.

That was when he discovered that
most of his fellow spies (in fact all of them except faithful, courageous Caleb)
still had the hearts of slaves. Their bodies may have been rescued from Egypt,
but they still carried the oppressor’s yoke in their hearts, believing
themselves helpless and refusing to take hold of the freedom God had given
them. Where he and Caleb saw amazing richness, a land flowing with milk and
honey, they saw only insurmountable difficulties. They were too afraid to take
hold of the inheritance God was giving them.

And so the Lord waited forty years for a new generation
to arise, a generation born in freedom and dependent on their God. These were
the people Joshua was about to lead into the Promised Land, so that they might
claim their inheritance at last.

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

This is the first post of a long-term project: I want to work my way through the whole of Luke's gospel, passage by passage, as a set of reflective poems -- not a theological commentary, per se, but as a set of personal responses. Some will be direct reflections on the text, others will be my own reactions to the text. Anyway, I will doubtless refine the project further in the writing of it!

Monday, August 04, 2014

He climbed slowly up the
mountain, knowing it was the last mountain he would ever climb. And there had
been so many, so much climbing. Long ago there had been the slight hills of
Egypt, where one had stood to watch the slaves labouring away on Pharaoh’s
latest crazy building project. There had been the steep places he had crossed
when he fled Egypt, and the hill he had just come over when he saw, ahead of
him, the bush that burned but was not consumed. He often pondered that bush,
seeking to understand the mind of God through the symbols He used to
communicate. Only now did he wonder if perhaps he himself was perhaps that bush
– inhabited by the very glory of God, and driven by Him to actions he himself
would never have imagined, nor thought himself able to accomplish, and yet,
never eaten away by that inhabiting glory. He remained himself, whatever mighty
wind the Lord breathed through him, and that, in itself was a marvel, utterly
different from man-made explanations of the way gods worked.

There was the hill, too, where he
had stood above the battle against the Amalekites with his hands raised in
prayer, until he grew so weary that Aaron and Hur had to hold his hands up for
him. And the Israelites, led by Joshua, had prevailed, because his prayers had
prevailed. And now he felt the weariness of his approaching end, and with it a
great peace. There would be no more battles, and no more mountains, it was
Joshua’s turn now to lead the free children of slaves into the glory of the
promise, to fight against all kinds of evil and teach them to follow the God
who called them home. Once it had hurt him terribly to know that, by his
presumption, he had forfeited his own right to enter the Promised Land, but now
he no longer minded. He had done his
part, and it was enough, and now, once more, he could be alone with the God who
had called him. The Promised Land was precious, but he had met with the One who
gave the Promise, who was, in Himself, the fulfilment and meaning of every good
promise that had ever been made. It was time to move from the symbols and the
tokens into the True Reality, and, step by step, as he climbed, he felt as i9f
his heart was making its own pilgrimage back home. It was time to be done with
the busyness and clamour.

And he thought then, of the
greatest mountain he had climbed, more times than he could now remember, Sinai,
where, while the people below him trembled in terror, he had walked up into the
very presence of God. Even now he had no words for that encounter, only a
memory of such glory that all his tears were turned to rainbows, the sign of
God’s mercy to man. He had walked with God, and in the tent of meeting he had
talked with God face to face, as a man talks to his friend. And now there was
no terror in the approach of death, it was no harder than walking to a friend’s
house and accepting their hospitality contented gratitude. God would take care
of the rest

Saturday, May 31, 2014

He didn’t need to recount them. There
were only 99, and he only had to quickly scan back over them to know which one
wasn’t there. He knew each one by name and he held each one in his heart, far
more precious to him than any market value a stranger would assign. And it was
the little one who had gone astray the jaunty, skittish one with one black leg
and a black patch on his face that always gave him a cock-eyed look. The
shepherd’s heart ached for his missing lamb. He knew just how much trouble
waited out there for someone so small and defenceless: wild beasts that would
lust for the taste of his flesh, treacherous paths where small feet could slip
and stray in the uncertain moonlight, the perils of fear and loneliness
pressing in upon him and overwhelming him with terror. There were steep
hillsides and strongly flowing streams and an all-devouring wilderness to
swallow up the tiny bleating of his despair.

Steeling himself to go out and face
the bitter night that was fast closing in, and gazing anxiously at the storm
clouds that were gathering even faster, the shepherd made his preparations. He
made sure that the rest of the flock were secure, huddled together, wool
against wool for warmth, with a strong stout fence around them that no predator
could breach, then he left the ninety nine safely penned against his return, girded
his loins, took up his crook, tightly fastened his cloak, and went forth into
the darkness.

It was a terrible night. Humanly he
thought of the warmth of a fire, and the comfort of having other men nearby. He
knew how they would laugh at him, their scorn blunted only by a hint of awe at
his stubbornness. None of them would do this. Why would a man who had 99 others
put his life on the line for a mere sheep? It made no sense, it wore no logic;
for love will always transcend logic, and make chaos of the heart’s account
books. It is such a debt that the whole world’s wealth counts as nothing in the
balance; and no hireling shepherd could ever understand. And holding such love
up before him, like a lantern to mark his path, he turned away from all the
temptations of warmth and laughter, and set his face towards the icy wind that
raked its talons across him.

He never told the story of that
night’s suffering: the stones that bruised his feet, the steep paths that
mocked his exhaustion, the sharp coldness of the rising streams he crossed. Nor
did he speak of the haunting fear that he might already be too late, or that
even his keen hearing might miss the sound of cries while the storm beat its
fury down upon him. But as the storms eventually blew over, and the first
paleness before dawn touched the sky, he found his missing lamb, caught in a
thornbush that leant over a terrible chasm. With infinite gentleness he soothed
its struggles, for how do you explain to a feckless lamb that the very thorns
that are hurting it are its only protection from a dreadful fall? There was
blood on his hands and feet, and a gash upon his side by the time his lamb was
safe. But there was no pain in his eyes as he lifted it tenderly to his
shoulders, only a joy too bright too look upon, for the lost had been found,
and his own was restored to him. And none who saw the gladness on his face as
he returned had any need to ask if it was worth what it had cost. They only
marvelled at his love!

Saturday, May 24, 2014

In the
beginning they danced for the wonder and the joy of it all. The morning stars
sang together, and the greater light and the lesser light danced in their
orbits of wonder. Creation was wonderfully fair, and the love of the Creator
shone out through every grass blade and blossoming twig. The waters danced in
the streams and the rivers, and the great waters moved in harmony. The mighty
beasts and the tiny ones woke into gladness. And it was very, very good.

But
sorrow came with sin, and there was grief and pain and horror, and Death, who
immobilises all dancing, made his terrible presence felt. Ruin and decay
appeared, step by grief-filled step, and all things under the sun fell away
from glory. And the deepest ruin was in the heart of man, where Death had set
up his throne, and ruled all things towards a grim and bitter misery. And
dancing was rare, except for the frantic gyrations with which the flesh would
try to forget, for a few moments, its grinding mortality. But here and there,
where the hints of a better Springtime broke through, where the smile of the
Father, who had not forgotten his world, was still reflected in the sunshine
and the blessed rain, and the soft light of the stars in the evening, hearts
would lift in praise, and, for a faltering footstep or two, they would stumble
in and out of the everlasting dance.

And the
ages passed, and the hearts of men grew weary, and death had dominion. But in
the darkest shadows a promise danced, and the time came for the promise to be
fulfilled. And so he came down from heaven, God himself, and his love danced
through every word and action, power and redemption and mercy dancing out a
story so glorious that those who had eyes to see were overcome with wonder. And
he danced, with feet weighed down with every dreadful burden of our mortality,
into confrontation with Death. And Death, who not abide the dance or the
promise, pinned him down with dreadful nails, to finish the dance and silence
the music of heaven once and for all.

But it
could not be. For Life broke Death, sin was accounted for, and, on that
glorious Resurrection morning, he danced out of the tomb, bringing glory and
fulfilment with him, and invited all of humanity to join in the new dance with
him. And they danced their way through hardship and persecution, through
discouragement and loss, and the world was not worthy of them. And still they
dance to the music of heaven, the love-song of the Father, though they stumble
and falter in their human clumsiness, for they have seen the beauty of their
Christ, and they would seek to dance his steps all the days of their lives.

And
they dance in hope, for they know that one day all things will be restored, and
there will be a new heaven and a new earth fresh from the hand of the Creator.
And the morning stars will sing again, and there will be no need of sun and
moon, for God himself will be their light, and by that light, enthralled by the
revelation of his beauty, they shall dance out his praise for all eternity.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

They expected him to be glad, because they hadn’t understood.
Wasn’t it in the nature of things for a man to rejoice when his enemy was cast
down? Didn’t a man lift up his heart at the destruction of one who had harassed
him for years, and pursued him with a personal malice that went far beyond the
limits of sanity, a malice that harried him into the desert wastelands, threw
spears at him, took away his wife, and did everything that the king of a small
country could possibly do to get rid of him? Everyone knew that it was only by
some miracle of divine preservation that David was still alive. Saul had used
every last, stretched atom of his bitter, twisted powers to destroy him, surely
it was only normal that David would be glad to hear that he was gone?

The man who brought the news certainly thought so. Worn with
the effort of trying to be the first with the news, fully expecting to be
rewarded, he arrived torn and dishevelled, and prostrated himself at David’s
feet, eager to honour the apparent new king. At David’s urging he repeated his
story in full, telling how Jonathan and his brothers had been killed by the
Philistines, and how, in the face of total defeat, Saul had despaired of his
own life and looked for death. Then, eager to ingratiate himself with the new
king, he embroidered the story of Saul’s final moments, claiming that he,
himself, at Saul’s urging, had struck the fatal blow!

It was a fatal mistake. David was outraged at his temerity,
that he, an Amalekite, an outsider, a member of an accursed race, had dared to
strike down the king Israel, the anointed of God! Saul, in his torment and
confusion had been a bitter enemy, but that was not how David perceived him. To
David, Saul was the chosen of God, the first King of Israel, anointed and
uniquely set apart. If his end had been ignominious, his beginning had been
glorious: he had led Israel to victory and had sought to follow the Lord, even
when he had totally misunderstood what God required. He had never renounced the
Lord, or fallen into the desperate idolatry that was the besetting sin of his
countrymen. And he had been the father of David’s dearest friend. There was no
way he could allow the self-confessed murderer of Saul to survive.

Instead, mourning deeply, David wrote a lament for the
fallen king. “Your glory, Oh Israel, lies slain on the heights. How the mighty
have fallen!” He could not despise his enemy or rejoice over his defeat.
Although Saul had made his life so difficult, he did not see this as a reason
to despise or fear him; why should he when he had already had the Lord’s sure
promise that one day he would be king in Saul’s place? The kingship was a gift
and honour given by God, a sacred thing which no one should lay rough hands
upon. Had they not seen, had they not known, that even when Saul was in his
power, David would not raise his hand against him? The death of Saul was not a
time of rejoicing, but a time to mourn.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

By the first time she saw then handsome stranger, he was
already in love with her younger sister, and her heart ached with the twisting
bitterness of her own inferiority, as once again, seemingly without any effort,
Rachel gained the prize, simply because she was born beautiful. Why would any
man give a passing glance at herself when Rachel was there? And yet she loved
him too, for not only was he very attractive, he was kind and thoughtful, and
she sensed that there was a deep hunger in his heart for God, that strange
dissatisfaction which she recognised so well, because her whole life was a
desperate prayer for blessing. But within a month he was betrothed to her
sister, and her father had wrung from the besotted man an agreement to work
seven years for Rachel’s bride price. Only for Rachel would a man pay so much!

So she tucked her dreams away, like so many lesser dreams
before, and got on with the chores of everyday. And if sometimes she was a bit
harsher than she should be? Well, it’s hard to keep all that disappointment
buried inside.

But she had reckoned without her father. He had another
plan, not out of any consideration for Leah, but because he was consumed by the
irresistible desire to drive an even better bargain, and rid himself of the
encumbrance of an unmarriageable daughter at the same time. So there she was,
heavily veiled, standing by Jacob’s side as they were married, and she had
never been so terrified as she was then, marrying the man of her dreams, her
heart’s desire, and wondering just how angry he would be when he woke up in the
morning and found he had been cheated.

And Jacob was angry, but not with her. He knew that her
father was responsible, but her father wasn’t concerned. He had planned it out
already, and at the end of Leah’s marriage week Jacob married Rachel, in return
for another seven years labour. And it was Rachel that he loved.

But Leah discovered, to her own astonishment, that she had
one gift that Rachel lacked – fertility, and she bore Jacob fine sons. But the
rivalry between the sisters continued for many years, competition so fierce
that they even had their maidservants bear Jacob’s children, as they tried to
keep score between themselves. And still, despite all, Jacob loved Rachel best.

Finally, Rachel died in childbirth, and the years of their
painful rivalry were over. But Jacob loved Rachel’s sons better than Leah’s,
for they were all he had left of the woman he had adored. But Leah no longer
ached and strained. She had as much of Jacob as he was able to give her, and
now that was enough, for through the bitter years she had learned that though
her father treated her as valueless trade goods, and her husband saw her as his
second best wife, she had found that God loved her, and in Him there was no
second best. And somewhere in those final years the Spirit of God had whispered
a truth into her heart that made her breath stop and her eyes overflow. It was
not from Rachel’s sons, fine men that they were, that redemption was to come,
but from the line of her own son, Judah. It was Leah, despised, overlooked
Leah, who would be a foremother of the King that God had promised.

Saturday, May 03, 2014

It should have felt triumphant. I had stood there in the
power and authority of the Lord, and seen the fire fall from heaven at my word!
For a moment I had felt all-powerful, as though I walked above the earth as
angels walk (though frightened also by the power of such fire as could burn the
very water in the trenches). At my command the awed people had taken and
slaughtered every last one of those pagan priests and prophets, and I felt the
exaltation of victory. I saw the rains come to relieve the great drought, and,
caught up in the exultant power of the Lord, I had run back, as fast as any
horse, all the way to Jezreel.

But I was still flesh and blood, and as that extraordinary
empowering withdrew from me, I was lost, feeble and alone. Only now, looking
back, do I realise the depths of the temptation to power and glory, the
temptation to demand the right to be something more than a humble and obedient
servant of the Most High. Very quickly I learned that the power, courage and
authority with which I had challenged, and defeated, the idolaters was not my
own. When Jezebel responded to her defeat with threats against my own life, the
only strength I found was the strength to run away as far as possible. Without
the spectacular intervention of God, I was as weak and frail as the most
vulnerable person in Israel. And so I fled.

I fled to Horeb. This was the place where God had
constituted Israel, this was the place where Moses was confirmed in his
leadership by some vision of the Lord Himself, the Lord whose face cannot be
seen by any living man. Maybe history would repeat itself and I could become
another Moses? After all, there had never been leaders of Israel who were more
unfit than Ahab and Jezebel! But I was exhausted, drained and faint, and the
fear of death had clouded my mind. Only the gift of food from an angel
sustained me on that terrible journey. For forty days and forty nights I ran,
into the heart of the wilderness, into the wilderness of my own pride and fear
and desperate longings. And for forty days and forty nights, God was silent,
and in that echoing silence I heard my own half-formed thoughts grow
uncomfortably loud.

It was only when I came to the mountain that the Lord spoke,
and asked me what I did there. Out of my mouth it poured, all my frustration
with recalcitrant Israel (as if God had not been bearing with them far, far
longer than I had!) God’s answer was strange. He bid me stand upon the mountain
in His presence (as Moses did? I wondered. And my terror was magnified, for he
unleashed before me all the powers of earth: wind, earthquake and fire (like
the fire upon Mount Carmel). And in all that power and terror, again God was
silent, and I knew then that these things of great power were not where the Lord
reveals His presence, for after these things of terror had passed by, in the absolute
quietness that followed, was the tiniest thread of a voice, the faintest whisper.
And in that silence, that weakness and stillness, I knew the presence of the
Lord of Lords and King of kings, and I trembled and covered my head. For He who
is mightiest can empty Himself to nothing, and in that silent place is a
mystery far more deep and wonderful than the power I had foolishly desired.

We were there on that black and dreadful day. The word had
spread quickly that he had been arrested, so we came, waiting in the shadows as
women do. Nobody notices or cares about the women in the shadows; we are so
unimportant that nobody notices or cares. Except him, of course. That was part
of the wonder and the marvel, he always saw us, and honoured us by his seeing.
We were not invisible creatures of the night to him – he saw us, he named us,
he knew us. That was why we loved him so very much, because he gave us back our
reality. With him we felt whole, and strong and valuable; to the rest of the
world we were only shadows.

And so we followed him, painfully, on that last dreadful
journey through Jerusalem, the journey to his death. It was agony to see his
agony, his body already slashed and torn by the dreadful Roman whip, those
terrible thorns causing blood to trickle down his face and into his eyes, his
whole body stooped and struggling beneath the burden of his cross. Watching his
pain was like being confronted with an obscenity so extreme it was almost
beyond our ability to take in, numbing us with horror. So we followed in the
shadows, as women do.

We stood there, on that anxious, dread-filled hill, wanting
to be with him in his suffering. We could not take one iota of his pain away,
but at least we could be there with him. It is what women do. We have no power
to take the suffering from the world, but we stand with those who suffer: the
crying child, the dying man, the woman racked in the hour of birth. We are
there. We are there for the bereaved and the broken – when you live in the
shadows you notice the pain of the world which the strong and the mighty
overlook. So we stayed there, at the foot of the cross, and we wept for the
pity and the horror of it until our eyes burned dry and we could cry no more.
And the Roman soldiers and the Jewish leaders ignored us; we were just women
weeping in the shadows, and that’s what women do.

And we stayed there watching him die, and our shadows seemed
a darkness so vast that the whole world was swallowed up in grief. And all
through the next day we lived out the most bitter Sabbath of our lives – so bitter
that, in comparison, dust and ashes would be sweet as honey. And we huddled in
the shadows and we mourned, on that grey, grey day when there was nothing left
to do but feel the enormity of our loss. We had forgotten that it was when
darkness covered the face of the deep that God said, “Let there be light!”

The whole world knows the story now, the story of that
still-dark shadowed morning when we went to anoint his body as our final
gesture of love, and found instead an empty tomb and a risen Lord. But it was
our story, we were there, and we drink its gladness and wonder all our days. We
were there when the morning broke and the shadows fled away, when our tears
were turned to laughter and our sorrow into joy. We did not need our shadows
any more.

About Me

Mother of two grown up kids,and very long time married, after many years as a full-time mum, then a part-time theological student I'm now trying to be useful in my local church whilst working out what the next step is.I'm passionate about Jesus, treasure the people in my life and dream of being a preacher. I'm a would-be poet, a slightly eccentric cook, and an INFP (which must explain something).
And I'm a pickle: a weird shaped lump of something-or-other, a bit salty, a bit sweet, definitely an acquired taste, preserved by the grace of God and trying to add a bit of flavour to the blandness of modern life.